


Music of the Night

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Eye Trauma, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Men Crying, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Scars, Singing, Witcher Hate Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26704318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: “Shh…” his left eye is tearing, though he cannot tell if it is from the pain, or the tenderness of Jaskier’s touch, which he knows he does not deserve. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. Just… breathe.”He doesn’t know what to say to that… so in the end, he doesn’t say anything at all.Once he’s certain that his stomach will not rebel against him again, he allows Jaskier to take the bucket. Within seconds, Jaskier’s hands are back on his face, working the needle in… and out… “It’s going to scar.”“I’m sorry…” He breathes. He doesn’t even know what it is that he’s apologizing for, but he knows that he means it. Tears course down his cheeks, causing a bright, piercing sting where the skin below his eye is torn. “I… I wasn’t… I should’ve taken more care to prevent them from hitting my face.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 317





	Music of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> It's been forever and a day since I've written a Witcher one-shot, and just like always... I don't know what the hell happened here. This was _supposed_ to be some fluffy shit, inspired by MOTI posting a cover of "Music of the Night" from Phantom of the Opera this past Sunday. It turned into... well, _this_. I hope you enjoy it anyway, lol <3
> 
> The song Jaskier sings is "Music of the Night" from Phantom of the Opera, by Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Geralt is silent as Jaskier takes needle to flame, insisting on _some_ measure of sterilization despite the fact that the cloth he’s using to staunch the flow of the Witcher’s blood is a piece of one of Geralt’s old shirts. He’d already said his piece about Jaskier wasting important resources on tending to wounds that would heal well enough in their own time, and, as per usual, Jaskier had ignored his protests in favor of doing whatever the hell he wanted. So here they were.

It did not help that, while Geralt had refused to tell Jaskier exactly _how_ he had obtained his injuries, Jaskier had been walking the Path alongside him long enough to be able to piece the truth together for himself.

The bard is rambling under his breath, likely desperate for something to fill the silence. Aside from the occasional _slosh_ of water against the wooden sides of the tub, the room is eerily silent, and has been ever since Geralt had come stumbling back in the dead of night, hand cupped over his left eye as tiny rivulets of blood ran through his fingers like water. Geralt finds that he doesn’t mind it. Ordinarily, he finds the bard’s incessant need to _talk_ , simply for the sake of filling the silence, to be unbearably annoying… but right now, his voice is like an anchor, keeping his mind safely stowed in the harbor. It keeps him from dwelling on the incident that’d brought them here, keeps him from focusing on the dull ache in his orbital socket where the rock had collided, keeps him from focusing on the bite of the needle as Jaskier carefully pieces him back together…

His blood paints a gruesome relief on Jaskier’s delicate skin. He forces himself to stare at it for as long as he’s able, his stomach twisting itself up into tight little knots—and then he’s waving, desperately, for the discarded wash bucket. Jaskier flinches, pinching his tender flesh just a bit too tightly in his haste to reach the bucket in time. The world spins as he clutches the wood with shaking hands. Everything hurts. He thinks that he might have a concussion, which would just be the icing on this terrifically bitter cake. He wants to lay down, to _sleep_ … but something tells him that that is an absolutely horrible idea, at least until Jaskier finishes tending to his wound. He resists the urge to close his eyes as he doubles over the bucket and _heaves_ , barely cognizant of Jaskier’s cool, lightly calloused fingers brushing his silver-white hair back from his face…

“Shh…” his left eye is tearing, though he cannot tell if it is from the pain, or the tenderness of Jaskier’s touch, which he knows he does not deserve. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. Just… breathe.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that… so in the end, he doesn’t say anything at all.

Once he’s certain that his stomach will not rebel against him again, he allows Jaskier to take the bucket. Within seconds, Jaskier’s hands are back on his face, working the needle in… and out… “It’s going to scar.”

“I’m sorry…” He breathes. He doesn’t even know what it is that he’s apologizing for, but he knows that he means it. Tears course down his cheeks, causing a bright, piercing _sting_ where the skin below his eye is torn. “I… I wasn’t… I should’ve taken more care to prevent them from hitting my face.”

Jaskier stares up at him, a troubled look in his eyes, “This wasn’t your fault, Geralt.”

Geralt’s fingers twitch, “Hmm.”

He wants, more than anything, to be out of this godsforsaken tub. To be out from underneath the unwavering love reflected in Jaskier’s gaze. To hide the grotesque vision of torn flesh that is his eye behind a curtain of hair… It is one thing to _be_ a monster—to _look_ like one was something else entirely. It was only a matter of time until Jaskier realized as much and… Jaskier snaps the thread binding his skin together with his teeth, before taking a moment to admire his handiwork. He runs his thumb alongside the stitches, touching Geralt so very gently, as if he’s something valuable… something _important_. As if just the right amount of pressure in the wrong place will cause him to shatter, like glass. He wants Jaskier to keep touching him like this, forever. With Jaskier’s delicate, lute calloused fingers on his skin, he almost feels… _human_ … even as those fingers leave smears of dark, crimson blood in their wake.

“Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation…” It takes him a moment to realize that Jaskier is singing to him. “Darkness wakes and stirs imagination…silently, the senses abandon their defenses…”

He furrows his brows, ignoring the _pinch_ he feels as the motion tugs on his stitches, “Jaskier…?”

“Helpless to resist the notes I write… for I compose the music of the night…”

Jaskier retrieves a washcloth and wets it in the lukewarm bath water. Geralt startles a bit when the soft fabric touches his cheek, just a few centimeters away from his wound, but slowly realizes that Jaskier intends to clean the dried blood from his skin. The soap stings, just a bit, but it is nothing compared to the knowledge that his own tainted blood is marring the ivory wings of the beautiful angel currently tending to his wounds. Even as Jaskier’s voice lulls him into a false state of calm, he knows that he should stop this before…

“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor… grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender… hearing is believing, music is deceiving…” Jaskier purrs. Geralt finds his eyes fluttering, as he’s slowly guided backward by hands that smell faintly of chamomile. “Hard as lightening, soft as candlelight… dare you trust the music of the night?”

Is that even a question? “I… Yes, I trust you, Jaskier…”

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirks up in the smallest of smiles, “Good.”

“But…” he’s clearly still struggling with something. Jaskier gently catches light pink tears in his washcloth, “You don’t… You don’t have to stay with me out of some misguided sense of duty. I know that I’m not… not now…”

Their eyes meet for a moment, before Jaskier sighs, “Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth… and the truth isn’t what you want to see… in the dark it is easy to pretend… that the truth is what it ought to be…”

It is true… in the relative safety of his own mind, he no longer has to worry about what it means for a human to walk the Path alongside a monster. He no longer has to worry about the day that Jaskier will realize he could do so much better than a genetically altered abomination and move on… no longer has to worry about the day that his sword will be too slow, that Jaskier’s wounds will be too deep… or that the years, which feel like _days_ for a creature as old as him, will finally take him from his side. Geralt does not often remember his dreams, but those he _does_ remember often consist of him relocating to the coast, basking in a humanity he only knows from what he has seen of his sweet angel, and reveling in all of the simple, mortal pleasures he’d been denied by virtue of the trials. He had never regretted the loss of his humanity as keenly as he did the moment he realized how much Jaskier truly meant to him…

He’d never ask Jaskier to sacrifice his humanity for him. Just as he knew it was impossible for him to regain his humanity in order to live and die at Jaskier’s side, like he so desperately wanted. But when he closes his eyes, it’s easy enough to pretend, if only for a moment, that they are not bardling and Witcher… angel and devil…

They’re just two men in love.

“You alone can make my song take flight…” Jaskier’s words feel like a promise, as his hand comes to gently cup the Witcher’s chin, “…Help me make the music of the… night…”

The pain in his face fades to a distant thrum, “…Yes…”

“Yes…?” He opens his right eye, watching as Jaskier prepares a cool compress for his wounded eye. “Good.” The bard smiles, truly, “…I’m so sorry that they hurt you, sweetling. But if I were so vain as to be turned off by a couple of scars… well… the only thing that I care about, Geralt, is that you are okay. Can you still see?”

“It’s… a little blurry.” He concedes, his voice scarce above a whisper. “But yes… I can still see.”

“Good.” He repeats, his voice a tad breathy. Geralt watches a few stray tears chart their course over the bard’s pretty cheeks, “T-Thank you for coming home to me, Geralt.” Now assured of his Witcher’s well-being, he breaks down, seeming to just now realize exactly how much blood is coating his hands.

Geralt takes his wrists in the gentlest grip he can muster, bringing the other in for a soft kiss, heavy with all the words he cannot say. When they part, he whispers, “Always…” and Jaskier gasps like he’d just confessed his undying love for him.

And looking at him, there in the darkness of their room… he thinks, someday, he might just be able to.


End file.
